


Show Me How

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Scars, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock loves John's scars, maybe a bit too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me How

**Author's Note:**

> I have seen far too many fics where Sherlock bites John's shoulder scar, and John gets off on it (BDSM fics aside, of course). As the owner of some fine scar tissue, I can tell you: that shit hurts. So I'm setting the record straight. Enjoy. :)
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. The finding of typos would be wonderful.

John’s scars were not something he liked to talk about. It wasn’t just the large one at his shoulder; his entire chest was peppered with little nicks and cuts that went just a bit too deep, so they decided to stick around.

A few whispy-little shrapnel marks dotted the doctor’s thighs, as well as a giant line cutting through the bottom of his foot. That one wasn’t from the war, it came from a drunken rugby match back at uni. It was pretty much the only scar John would talk about. Sometimes, when he’d been drinking, he would tear off his shoe and tell anyone who would listen. Though mostly, John hated his scars.

Sherlock loved John’s scars. White and pink lines making beautiful patterns across the canvas that was John Watson. He couldn’t get enough of them. The one at John’s shoulder, the bullet wound, that was Sherlock’s favorite, but he loved them all. Except the one on the bottom of John’s foot, the one from the rugby match. That one was boring.

John’s scars told the story of him. His life, his hardships and accomplishments, and his bravery—couldn’t forget that—and Sherlock loved every single one of them.

Every night when they went to bed, whether they’d had sex or not, Sherlock’s fingers would itch to trace over John’s destroyed skin. He wanted to feel those scars underneath his hands, feel his nails biting into the spongy flesh. Bite at them with his teeth. He knew John wouldn’t let him (Sherlock wasn’t an idiot, he knew John hated them) but he still wanted to.

Sometimes, after a particularly good orgasm, John drifted off quite quickly, leaving Sherlock awake in bed to touch to his heart’s content. Usually, he would merely run his fingers over the skin, feeling the unusual bumps, and random smooth patches. But tonight, he couldn’t help himself.

Lowering his lips down to John’s left shoulder, Sherlock only meant to kiss. Then, his tongue snaked out to make its way along the divot in the skin, trace around the bullet hole that was. Before he knew it, Sherlock bit down hard on the silky skin.

“Fuck!” John woke with a start, pulling away, his hand immediately going to his shoulder. “What?” Bleary-eyed and disoriented, he looked around, finally managing to focus on Sherlock.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said under his breath. He wouldn’t meet John’s eyes, which was basically admitting that he’d done wrong.

“Sorry?” John repeated. In the dull street light coming through the window, Sherlock could see the confusion on his face; John hadn’t figured it out yet. “Sherlock,” his eyes darted down to his shoulder, then back to the younger man. “Did you just _bite_ my scar?” Oh well, so much for that.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said again.

John’s eyes went wide. “Jesus, Sherlock. Why the hell—?” He was so angry, he couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Why on Earth did you think that was a good idea?”

“John,” Sherlock sighed. He tried to move in close, only to have the man move away. Oh, he really must be angry. “I’m sorry—”

“Yeah, got that part.” John snapped. Hand still covering his shoulder, he moved farther away. Almost to the other side of the bed. Sherlock wanted to follow, but he stayed put. In the year they’d been together, he’d learned to recognize when he’d done something wrong. This was wrong. He just didn’t know why.

“You never let me touch your scars,” he whispered. “I know you don’t like them, but I do. I love you skin, every flawed inch of it. And I want to touch it, I want to… bite it.”

For a second, John looked about ready to forgive him. Until he said that. “Sherlock,” he hissed. “You can’t just _bite_ a hunk of scar tissue! Do you know how painful that is?”

“I’m sorry.” He said again. What else could he say? Sherlock himself didn’t have as many scars as one might think. A few old needle marks from his drug days, one pock mark next to his lip, that was it. They were nothing compared to a lovely ropes of destroyed flesh that wrapped around John.

“Do you even know what scar tissue is?” John didn’t stop; he saw Sherlock open his mouth and kept going. “Obviously, you don’t, considering you just tried to _bite_ a lump of it.

“Scar tissue is broken tissue. It’s made up of cells that have been stuck into a blender and rearranged by the body with half the pieces missing. The missing parts have been filled in with nerve tissue—fucked up nerve tissue.” John said. “Sometimes they don’t read temperature correctly, sometimes a touch causes phantom pain in a completely different part of the body. Some of them don’t hurt at all—not my shoulder though, that one always hurts,” yes, Sherlock was very clear on that by now.

“Sometimes the nerves are over-sensitive. A soft touch could be the most painful thing in the world. And _teeth_ ,” John shuddered at that, a whole body shiver that ran thought his entire being. Sherlock had never felt so bad. He would never touch John’s scars again, just erase that look from your face, please. “You might as well be ripping it all open again.”

“I’m sorry,” what else could he say?

“It’s… not fine, but I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Arms snaking out, John tried to pull him down to the mattress. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Before his head could hit the pillow again, Sherlock reached out an arm to stop him. “Show me,” he said.

“What?” John’s eyes were already dropping closed. Damn that man and his ability to fall asleep at will.

“Show me how.” Sherlock said. He pulled John back up to a sitting position and brought his hand up to his arm. But he didn’t touch his shoulder. Sherlock wouldn’t, not until he had permission. “I love your scars, John,” he whispered. “They’re wonderful. They’re as much a part of you as anything else.

“And this,” Sherlock moved his hand to John’s shoulder and let his fingers skirt just outside the scar tissue. Half an inch from the silky smooth, beautifully damaged flesh. “This is the one that brought you to me.

“So show me how. Please, show me how to touch so they don’t hurt.” He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss where his fingers just were. Right on the edge of the scar.

“Sherlock,” John sighed, but he didn’t pull away. Sherlock noted that: he didn’t pull away.

“Please?” Another kiss. “I want to touch you everywhere I can. Show me how?”

Silence filled the room for the longest moment of Sherlock’s life. When John exhaled, he relaxed; he would let Sherlock do this. “No nails, and no teeth.”

“Alright,” before John could figure out what was going on, Sherlock jumped up to the bed and ran into the bathroom.

“Sherlock?” John called after him. Nothing, just soft clipping sounds.

A moment later, Sherlock burst out of the bathroom and landed back on the bed. He shoved his hands in John’s face. “Better?” He asked.

John reached out to examine one of the waving hands. “Jesus,” he hissed. Sherlock had cut his nails to the quick. Sherlock’s nails were never overly-long, but now they were barely there; John was surprised he didn’t see blood. “Sherlock, that’s…” crazy? Overzealous? A bit dangerous? Considering those were three very accurate ways to describe how Sherlock lived life, John guessed he would have to leave it alone. “That’s fine,” he sighed.

A smile flashed across Sherlock’s face. “What next?”

Not five minutes ago, John had been beside himself with his lover. Seriously, who bites at a fucking scar? How was that a good idea in anyone’s mind? But now, seeing him so happy… John was getting happy too. He loved it when Sherlock touched him—anywhere and everywhere—so how could adding one more point of contact be a bad thing?

“You have to be gentle, but firm.” John said. Taking Sherlock’s hands in his, he pulled them close so he was whispering, almost like a secret. “Touch too lightly and it makes it itch.” And scratching at a scar was up there with biting one. “And pressing too hard makes it hurt even more.”

Sherlock nodded. “Gently, but firm.”

“Yes,” John said. Then, he had an idea. Dropping his hand between Sherlock’s legs, John ran his thumb across the flaccid length.

Sherlock gasped softly at the touch. “John—”

“Touch it like you’d touch my cock,” John whispered. “The skin is just as delicate. So touch it like that: gentle enough so you don’t damage anything, but firm enough so that it feels good.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed happily, dipping down to kiss John’s neck. “I know how to do that.” His hand slid up John’s arm, stopping again at the edge of the scar. “May I?”

Oh, Sherlock asking for permission was wonderful. It didn’t happen often (or ever) so John lapped it up whenever he could. “Yes,” he nodded. “Slow to start.”

Permission granted, Sherlock let his fingers slide up over the scar. That lovely wound, marking John as the hero he was. At the first touch, John hissed softly and Sherlock came to an absolute stop. Fingers completely frozen in place. “No, you’re fine,” John shook his head. “It’s just… new. Keep going.”

Sherlock did. With slow, soft, wide sweeps, he let the pads of his fingers trace over John’s scar. Memorizing every dip, crevice and smooth plane. “John,” he whispered. “It’s amazing.”

“Sure,” John did his best to smile. Sherlock’s whole hand was in on the game now, sliding over John’s shoulder.

His other hand came up to push on John’s right shoulder. “Lie back,” he whispered. John did. Not wanting to waste any time, Sherlock threw his leg over and straddled John’s hips. His fingers never leaving the scar.

And he kept touching. Fingers running over scarred flesh, pressing firmly as they felt the wonderful skin. Ever since they’d first become lovers, Sherlock set out to memorize every inch of John. Thus far, the only inch he hadn’t traced with his hands, mouth and cock, was this scar. Maybe John would finally let him add the last piece to the giant John-shaped file on his hard drive. Sherlock kept it safe in the corner of his mind marked “do not delete.” Nothing could ever take away the memories and information he had stored there. Nothing could take John away.

Soon, touching with his fingers wasn’t enough. John hadn’t raised any objections, so Sherlock assumed he was doing everything right—soft touches that were still firm enough to make it comfortable. If he’d gotten everything right, shouldn’t he be granted a new level?

“John?” He whispered, fingers still tracing the scar. Dipping down into the divot the bullet left. Touching the little pink spot that still hadn’t faded to white.

“Mmm?” John mumbled. A look down showed that he was half-asleep again. Definitely enjoying it, then.

“Can I… kiss it?” Sherlock asked. John’s eyes flew open at that, his hands tightening around Sherlock’s hips. “No biting, I promise.” Sherlock said before John could raise an objection. “Just kissing and, maybe licking?” He tried not to sound too hopeful.

After a few seconds, John nodded. “Just be careful to start.”

“Yes, John.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Sherlock was bent over, his lips already pressing against the smooth tissue. They both groaned at the first touch. Soft lips on soft, destroyed skin. John didn’t know it could feel that good… Sherlock didn’t know he would love the feeling this much. All those nights he’d imagined touching John like this, feeling the smooth pits of that scar under his lips….

“Sherlock…” John groaned. Hips bucked up of their own accord, making them both gasp. Neither noticed at first, but their cocks were pressed together in a lovely way. With the first jerk of John’s hips, realization dawned quickly.

Sherlock shoved his hips against John’s, grinding their cocks together with intent. At their age, a second erection in one night was rare, so they really shouldn’t waste it. “John,” he mumbled back, mouth firmly latched onto his shoulder. Licking and sucking, and trying not to bite. He pulled back and kissed every bit of scar he could reach, thrusting against John again and again.

Hands scratched at his back. “Sherlock,” John panted. “I’m going to come.”

“So come,” he whispered into the scarred flesh. “God, you’re so lovely, John. Every bit of you. Every flawed, destroyed bit of you is beyond beautiful.” Another broad, flat swipe of tongue across John’s entire shoulder. “Beautiful,” Sherlock mumbled into his skin. “Beautiful John, my beautiful…”

Words trailed off into nonsense as Sherlock thrust down against John over and over. John’s fingers reached up to grab onto the man’s hair, holding him in place. His other hand snaked around to plant itself on Sherlock’s ass, urging him forward, until… until….

“Christ!” John gasped. His hips bucked, lifting them both off the bed as he came.

Sherlock kept licking. Tongue and fingers laving at the scar, touching everywhere he could. Little beads of perspiration rolled over John’s skin, mixing with the already heady tastes that Sherlock could describe as nothing other than pure _John_.

That was enough to push him over as well. With his tongue swirling along the small canyon of scar, Sherlock shouted his release into John’s skin. The fingers latched onto his backside and tangled in his hair twitched, urging him to press forward, keep going, wringing every drop from him.

After their second orgasm of the night, both men were thoroughly wrung out. For a few minutes, motor function escaped them. Sherlock was the first to regain feeling in his arms.

He pushed himself up to look down at John. “Thank you,” he smiled.

John smiled back, running his hands through the sweat-soaked curls again. “If that’s the result, maybe I should let you touch my scars more often.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Yes,” he dipped down and pressed a kiss to John’s lips. “Yes, please. John, can we do it again?”

John couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Yes, you silly sod. We can do that again.” A soft kiss to his temple. “But not right now. Now, we sleep.”

“Yes John,” Sherlock mumbled.

After a bit of shifting and a little cleaning up with the corner of a sheet (they needed to be changed anyways) both men fell into a fairly deep sleep. When John woke the next morning, it was to find Sherlock with his mouth latched onto his shoulder again, tonguing John’s scar in his sleep.

With a laugh, John leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, holding his mad as a hatter consulting detective close.

The End


End file.
